


flowers that bloomed in eden

by catchpenny



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-19
Updated: 2014-04-19
Packaged: 2018-01-19 23:05:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1487434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catchpenny/pseuds/catchpenny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire is gone, like a phantasm, but there's evidence of his former presence. A few long, curling dark hairs on the pillow. An animal musk faintly perceptible in the air and on the bedlinen, deeper than Enjolras's own. </p><p>For <a href="http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/14280.html?thread=13594056#t13594056">this</a> kinkmeme prompt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	flowers that bloomed in eden

**Author's Note:**

> ...nor were those flowers more gay  
>  The flowers that did in Eden bloom;  
> Unpitying frosts, and Autumn's power  
> Shall leave no vestige of this flower.
> 
> (Philip Freneau, The Wild Honeysuckle).

In the morning Enjolras wakes a little later than usual, and a little slower.

It's a slow surfacing, and as he rouses, he becomes aware of a certain state of lassitude: the feeling of use in his muscles, not sharp or keen enough to be unpleasant. If his shoulder ached, he could ascribe it to practicing his aim a little distance from the city, as Bahorel corrected his posture and Joly collected the spent bullets for recasting. That is a specific ache, however; from the recoil of the gun, the kick as he fires. This is more like the feeling of a day's riding - and at that thought, Enjolras wakens fully, eyes opening as he bolts upright.

Grantaire is gone, like a phantasm, but there's evidence of his former presence. A few long, curling dark hairs on the pillow. An animal musk faintly perceptible in the air and on the bedlinen, deeper than Enjolras's own. The ache in his thighs and the pleasant sense of use. 

Beyond that - no word. No note, and not for a lack of writing supplies; Enjolras's desk is halfway across the room. He can see his pen sitting in its inkwell where he left it. Grantaire must have taken care to leave in silence, and that thought makes Enjolras's mouth pull strangely, not sure whether to be pleased or irked at the thought of Grantaire carefully sliding from his bed in small degrees, afraid to wake him. He's not a deep sleeper even when matters are not in their current state of foment, the men angry in the streets and anti-royalist whispers almost loud enough to hear muttered as the painted carriages roll by and the scent of gunpowder on the wind from Lyon.

He pushes aside the blankets and gets to his feet. Naked: his shirt is still on the floor, but it seems Grantaire has folded it. It could have been placed there, not violently thrown aside. Grantaire seems, too, to have taken care to restack a toppled pile of books, to straighten the chair they knocked aside in their struggle the previous evening. Struggling to remove clothing; to draw closer; to bridge the unfathomable distance between them as men, as idéologues. Between hope and despair, action and idleness. It's strange; the at of venery is new to Enjolras, but he had never imagined it bore such resemblance to fighting. That interests him, where the idea of tepid lovemaking has always bored.

There's something apologetic about the way Grantaire has sought to remedy the damages and efface the night's events - or simply cowardly. Is it evidence of good manners, or of regret? Perhaps it is an offered exit, a carte d'oubli rather than a carte blanche. _This did not happen,_ the room seems to suggest. _You may dress and go about your business and we will never speak again of it._

Idiot. Enjolras frowns severely at the far wall, and then pauses. He draws closer. There's enough light filtering through the shutters to make out his image in the mirror, and when he steps directly into the thin ribbons of sunshine, his body turns the pale colour of new marble before the filth of the city has had time to stain it. He's not vain of his own beauty - he accepts that he has a measure of it, but that measure means nothing to him. What draws his eye are the marks blossoming all over that fairness, like blackberries staining cream.

There's a red and purple crescent in the meat of his thigh, where the fine golden hair becomes invisible and the muscle is thickest. It throbs under his touch, the perfect imprint of a man's teeth. Enjolras remembers, faintly, Grantaire's dark head dallying between his legs, his nose brushing the edge of his hip, nuzzling the seam of his thighs, the curving shape of his sac cradled between them, and then moving down to mouth previously undistinguished flesh, to christen thigh and buttock like holy land, to lick the inside of his knees.

There are more, but none as starkly and self-evidently a bite. The marks of fingertips digging too tightly into his forearms. Nailmarks in his shoulders. Flowering bursts of rusty brightness everywhere Grantaire sucked hard enough to bring blood rushing to the surface of Enjolras's skin on his chest and shoulder and throat; even low on his belly. There are some signs of intimacy that cannot be ignored or overwritten, signs of desperate desire and possession that don't disappear even in the clear light of morning, like the knowledge that some gaps can never be bridged; some men may never fully understand one another.

The map of how Grantaire touched him, claimed him, _used_ him kindles memory and senses and a strange new sort of satisfaction together. He puts his hand to his cock, and grasps it lightly. It's been only hours, but he could bring himself off again, in front of the mirror, staring into his own darkened eyes and at his own crushed lips, the line of concern - confusion? - on his brow; an act of shameless narcissism and inexcusable indulgence -

No. He has business to attend to. And, too, at some point his path will cross Grantaire's, and Enjolras will be able to ascertain his state of mind.

His toilette is more thorough than usual this morning. It takes several passes with a cloth and his washstand to remove the crust of seed from the light hair on his belly, from his thighs and backside. It is impossible to say where it is his own, and where it is not.

His shirt cuffs fasten closely at the wrist. His collar and cravat mask his throat almost to his chin. Trousers, waistcoat, coat; the camouflage is complete, head and hands all that remain bare. He doesn't bother with gloves. The marks remain even once he dresses, a secret language concealed under his clothes. 

And deeper, under his skin, in the complaint of muscle and the memory of touch.

He will walk into the Musain and greet and be greeted by his friends. They will not know that his mouth shaped things other than smiles and polite greetings the night before. They will shake hands, and not know that these palms and fingers slid down a man's naked back, grasped the muscle of his backside and tightened there. He will sit in his accustomed chair at his accustomed table and feel the ache of last night as a reminder.

Grantaire will be there already, perhaps, dicing or drinking or both, loud and bellicose. He won't acknowledge Enjolras's presence; or perhaps he will call something irritating out, too loud. 'Oh, we are graced by wingèd Mercury himself! Hush, and listen to the angel-messenger of revolution; silence, hissing snakes! The touch of his shadow smites: his glance slays -'

Or, perhaps, he will slink in later, full of wine and misery, and slip silent and sullen to his usual corner. Enjolras will ignore him; frown, possibly.

And later -

And later, Enjolras decides, taking up his hat. Later, he will touch Grantaire's shoulder, and squeeze where he knows he left the imprint of his own teeth as he passes. Perhaps he will let his cravat crumple and come untied, and let Grantaire see a shadow under his jaw. Enjolras will touch it, and look at him, and know.


End file.
